


Sweet Indulgence

by The_Sinking_Ship



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Draco has a wicked crush and handles it with all the grace and maturity we've come to expect, Frottage, Head Auror Harry Potter, Humour, M/M, Ministry Worker Draco, entirely too much champagne, holiday fic, office Christmas party, sex on a desk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sinking_Ship/pseuds/The_Sinking_Ship
Summary: It doesn't matter that Marcy from Accounting is dancing on the tables, Shacklebolt is wearing antlers, and Elliot from Transportation is on his third round of Mariah Carey on karaoke because all the free champagne in the world won't salvage the Ministry Christmas party for Draco if Potter doesn't show up soon.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 95
Kudos: 597





	Sweet Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/gifts).



> [Lynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney) posted [this rather saucy bit of Christmas Draco](https://fictional.tumblr.com/post/636916103772323840/its-that-time-of-year) which I’m sure you’re all familiar with (if not, what are you even doing?! Come out of the darkness and join us in the light) and I couldn’t let it go. I’d like to say it was an accident, like whoops I wrote 10k of office Christmas party fic with a side of smut but….yeah, no this was 100% on purpose.
> 
> So this is for you, Lynn! You’re an absolute sweetheart for letting me borrow your Draco and have my dirty way with him. 
> 
> HUGE thanks to [MostlyVoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid) for the pro beta. It was _perfection_. ;)

In all honesty, Draco probably shouldn't have finished that last glass of champagne. It was just that the Ministry Christmas party was so bloody awful, and the only reasons to attend were the free booze and the opportunity to watch one of the Minister's straightlaced aides have one too many cocktails, belt out "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer'' on karaoke, and start chatting up the houseplants. It was practically guaranteed to go completely arse-up, which meant that the office betting pool was especially lively that year. Draco had his Galleons on Marcy Poults from the Accounting department to be the one to make a total tit of herself, but Elliot Bulwark from Transportation was already looking a bit wobbly and was shimmying in a way that implied he might start dancing at any moment. Draco wondered if it was too late to change his bet.

Blackmail opportunities aside, Draco nearly skipped out entirely. He wasn't exactly keen on Christmas, and while he could tolerate the food and the drinks, and the presents were rather nice, he found the whole aesthetic incredibly gauche. The Ministry didn't show an ounce of restraint when it came to decorating, and Draco had been tripping over holly garlands and choking on the scent of pine since Halloween. The tree in the centre of the atrium was so large it looked as if it had taken root and was dripping with twinkling fairy lights, multicoloured ornaments, and baubles. It was a complete eyesore and severely restricted the most direct pathway to the Legal Department, forcing him to take the long way around, past Magical Games and Sports instead of his usual course by the DMLE.

If the atrium was overdone, the second-floor ballroom where the party was held was a bloody catastrophe. Every visible inch of the room was flocked in sparkling fake snow, and Draco had no doubt he'd find bits of glitter embedded in the fibres of his jacket for years to come. It smelled of Christmas, of allspice and cinnamon, but also of wine, whisky and wood smoke from the fire roaring in the enormous grate. Everyone in attendance was in their holiday finery, which waffled between dowdy and utterly ridiculous. Why people felt the need to decorate themselves like a shop window, with too many patterns and shiny bits, was something Draco would never understand.

It wasn't just the gaudy decorations that nearly did Draco in. He _hated_ attending Ministry functions alone and he was currently between boyfriends (and really, 'boyfriends' was being a bit generous, because the tart he'd brought home from the club two weeks prior wasn't exactly dating material). Draco had dragged a Healer by the name of Richard along to last year's do. Admittedly, it was nice to be part of a couple, to stand in the circle of someone's arm, to commiserate over the infinitely dull conversations about the weather (cold, obviously) and Christmas dinner plans (Manor, Mother, too much Merlot). Alas, poor Richard didn't last long after that evening. He'd not been charmed by the speed at which Draco indulged in the open bar, nor the fact that Draco kept trying to chat up Harry Potter. In retrospect, Draco could see how that would be off-putting, but what was Draco expected to do, _not_ try to get Potter's attention by spelling his shoelaces together and covertly sticking bits of holly garland in that bird's nest he called hair?

Thank Merlin Pansy agreed to accompany him this year. Shrewd as she was, Pansy figured it would be the perfect opportunity to schmooze with the moneyed and powerful in hopes of garnering an interview for her next article in _Witch Weekly_. Draco was just glad he had someone with whom he could gossip without getting sacked, because Kingsley Shaklebolt was wearing antlers and a jumper with flashing lights and Draco could hardly contain his glee.

"Explain this to me?" Pansy gestured with her chin toward Shacklebolt, whose jumper had just begun singing _Jingle Bells_. "All the Galleons and influence in the world, and that's what he came up with? Do you reckon he stepped into the floo this evening thinking, 'yes, this is exactly the off-duty ensemble I want all my colleagues to see me in. Both festive and unflattering. Perfection.'"

Draco smirked and took the fresh glass of champagne Pansy held out to him. He really ought not drink it. He would, obviously, but thought he should at least put up some form of protest.

"Can't buy taste, darling," Draco said.

"Clearly," Pansy said and sipped primly from her flute. "Though I can see why you didn't want to miss this. There is no way we're going to make it until nine o'clock without someone attempting to snog the man dressed as St Nicholas. I've seen more than half the ladies from Tariffs and Taxation sit in his lap already."

"You should have been here last year," Draco said. "Ellen from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes tried dancing on the tables and ended up flashing her knickers to half the Wizengamot when the table collapsed. It was fucking brill, Pans. Her little legs sticking straight up from the pile of rubble? An absolute marvel."

Pansy scoffed. "It figures, doesn't it? All it takes to get these dull workaholics to cut a bit too loose is to pay for their drinks, pop on a Muggle Christmas album, and let them stay out past dark."

"It's honestly the only thing that keeps me going sometimes. My supervisor Nigel will be shouting at me about paperwork-this or deadline-that and I'll just pull up the memory of him in a crooked Santa hat riding the decorative reindeer in the lobby," Draco closed his eyes and hummed. "And suddenly, everything looks just a little rosier, you know?"

"Well, it's certainly more entertaining than the Christmas functions we throw at the publishing offices. Although I will say we have much finer scenery. Honestly, Draco, I don't know how you stand it. There isn't a fit bloke here, aside from St Nick over there."

"All the good ones are married," Draco said, leaning back against a pillar and knocking loose a bit of cottony flocking onto the shoulders of his red velvet suit jacket, which he brushed away with a grimace. "Or dating ruddy Quidditch players from Brazil."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Oh, here we go."

"It's almost seven-thirty and he isn't here yet," Draco whined. "Do you think he isn't coming? I've thought up at least three appropriately cutting remarks, and one mildly flirtatious comment about his hair, and if he doesn't show up, they'll all go waste."

"Not that I have any desire to indulge your ridiculous obsession with Potter, but did you not see the news in the papers this morning?"

Draco shook his head. "I think Mrs Fortnum's crup is stealing the _Prophet_ off my doorstep again."

"Well, that explains it, then. I expected you to be entirely insufferable tonight, and you haven't said a word about it."

"About what? What did he do now? A heroic and glorious arrest of all the most dangerous dark wizards in the world? A million-Galleon donation? Another Wizard First-Class medal to pin to his chest? His very broad, muscular chest…" Draco's eyelids fluttered shut.

"My god, you're pathetic. And no, nothing quite so altruistic. He split with his Quidditch player, Juan Whatsit. It's a pity, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the flesh; now _there_ is a specimen of a man."

Draco's eyes snapped open and he whirled on Pansy, clamping a hand on her shoulder — which was really rather bare for a Ministry function, though that Gucci dress did marvellous things for her figure.

"What did you say?" Draco hissed.

"Get your paws off me, you brute," she said and shrugged from beneath his palm and rolled her shoulder. "I said Potter split up with his boyfriend. It was all over the lifestyle section. That's probably why he isn't here. He's afraid of being accosted by thirsty bastards like you."

"You're telling me Potter is single?"

"That's what I'm telling you, though I'm already starting to regret it."

Draco clutched his chest. Potter was _never_ single. His relationships never seemed to last long, perhaps a few months at most. It would probably be considered casual dating were it anyone other than Harry Potter, but everyone was desperate to connect themselves to the most famous wizard in England. Oh, and Potter was fit. Like, really bloody fit.

Draco had nurtured an infatuation for Potter since he'd started working in the law offices as a part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry two years prior. And he supposed, if he really thought about it, he'd wanted Potter many years before that, in some way or another. But who could blame him? Draco had a bit of a thing for the authoritative types, and Potter had that in spades.

Draco was not too shy to admit that watching Potter traipse around the Ministry in scarlet robes with the Head Auror badge pinned to the front _did things_ to his self-control. In fact, Draco was not too shy to admit much of anything. He flirted with Potter shamelessly and at every opportunity. And Potter, bless him, always responded with the same narrow-eyed wariness, as if unsure why Draco was practically drooling on his boots. Potter seemed to have no idea the effect his broad shoulders, bright eyes, and messy dark hair had on Draco – or everyone else, for that matter. It was fucking precious, and it made Draco want to wrap himself around him.

"Gods, that gives me a window of… what, three hours before someone else steals him out from underneath me yet again?" Draco calculated.

"Darling, Potter has never once been underneath you," Pansy said.

"Mm, no," Draco agreed and licked his lips. "But I'd rather like to be underneath him."

"So you've said. Frequently. Repeatedly. _Explicitly."_

"And I will continue to do so until I either have Potter in my clutches or I perish."

"Well, seeing as he isn't even _here,_ I'd bet on the latter."

Draco sniffed. "You just want me to suffer, don't you?"

"I'd say yes, but you're wildly dramatic when you're put out, and I've not had nearly enough champagne to stomach it tonight. So, for your sake – but mostly for _my_ sake – I hope Potter hurries the fuck up and takes you off my hands."

Draco grinned and bumped his shoulder against hers. "I always knew you wanted the best for me."

Pansy gave him a little shove. "Come on, let's go see if there is anything edible at the buffet. I'm feeling faint."

The buffet at the Ministry Christmas party was always a bit of a disaster, if an amusing one. It wasn't that they couldn't afford a caterer, but the potluck was a tradition. Irma Hornbeam from the Floo Network Authority brought her spectacular White Forest Roulade again. Draco considered it one of the few edible things on the table and gladly plucked a cherry from the top and popped it into his mouth as Pansy slapped at his hand. There was the usual unsightly and unidentifiable terrine, some greasy sausage rolls, and a dodgy-looking dish that was likely spotted dick, but seemed to move of its own accord.

Draco had a caprese skewer halfway to his mouth when Pansy let out an excited squeal and clapped her hands together.

"Draco, _look_ ," she said, her voice high and strangled in her throat.

Draco bit the mozzarella off the stick and dropped the half-eaten skewer back onto the platter.

Pansy held between two sharp red fingernails a gingerbread biscuit. It was decorated much like one would decorate any normal Christmas biscuit, with the candy buttons and tidy white outlines — except _these_ biscuits also had little round glasses, red and gold scarves, and lightning bolt scars painted lovingly with sugar icing.

Draco snatched the cookie from Pansy. "Oh my god. _Oh my god._ These are bloody brilliant. Would you look at that, they even got the hair right. How many do you think I could fit in my pockets? I'm going to put one in Father's stocking on Christmas morning."

Pansy snorted. "I'll not be paying for your drinks when he disowns you. Who would even make biscuits shaped like Harry Potter? Is it some sort of practical joke?"

"As if anyone would have the bollocks to make a practical joke of Potter," Draco scoffed.

"Other than you?"

"I'm special," Draco preened, then examined the biscuit again. "It's probably Edith, Potter's secretary in the DMLE. She usually does something impressive for the buffet, and she's a little soft on him, I think. You should have seen the cake she made for his birthday. There were six tiers and singing pixies."

"How the hell do you know what Potter's secretary did for his birthday? You don't even work in that department."

"I cruise by occasionally. Someone had to switch out his birthday candles for the exploding sort."

"Fucking hell, Draco," Pansy said. "What are you, twelve? Only you would have the bollocks to pull Harry Potter's pigtails."

Draco decided not to tell Pansy that yes, he had in fact pulled Potter's hair once. Potter let it grow long and sometimes tied it in a stubby knot at the back of his head to keep it out of his eyes. And one Tuesday, Potter was just standing there in the crowded lift, directly in front of Draco, looking grim and worn around the edges. It was distracting, and before Draco really thought about it, he'd given that dark knot of hair a sharp tug. Potter had whirled around, his face going from furious to amused quick as lightning. And when Draco exited the lift at the next floor, he was sure to put in an extra sway to his hips. He could feel Potter's eyes on him until the lift doors shut, and Draco spent the rest of the afternoon glowing.

Maybe it was childish, but it didn't make any difference to Draco. Not so long as Potter smiled at him instead of shouting or cursing him. So, Draco just shrugged and shoved a biscuit in his trouser pocket, though he was starting to think it might be the closest Potter would ever get to his cock.

*****

By eight-thirty, Draco had _definitely_ drunk too much champagne and was teetering on the verge of a right bloody strop. He'd already volunteered Pansy to sing "Santa Baby" on karaoke, which she did as if she were on a stage — in a strip club — and the whole endeavour was far more successful than Draco hoped. He'd even taken to levitating bits of tinsel into Shacklebolt's antlers, which only ended up getting him complimented on his festiveness. It was dull and hateful. Pranks were only fun when Potter was there to glower and give Draco dark looks that had him wondering whether he was going to get hexed or backed into the nearest broom closet.

Draco was busy ignoring the advances of some Junior Auror, who was sort-of good looking and whose name Draco couldn't be bothered to remember, when Potter finally showed. And maybe the crowds didn't part and the angels didn't start singing (because Marcy's rendition of George Michael's "Last Christmas" was _far_ from angelic), but they might as well have because he was there, at the bar, procuring a glass of firewhisky and running a hand through his hair.

Potter looked quite smart in his charcoal jumper and dark jeans. Draco loved it when he wore Muggle clothes. Not that he minded the Auror uniform with the shiny gold buttons and the badge. Hell, he'd even been fond of the trainers and gym shorts he'd caught Potter in once, between his workout at the gym and the DMLE showers. Draco had bruised his knee that day, walking smack into a wall while trying to peek through the swiftly-closing locker room door. 

Perhaps Potter felt the weight of Draco's stare, because he lifted his eyes, cocked a brow, and raised his whisky to Draco from across the room. Draco didn't even try to withhold the lascivious smile that curled the corners of his lips.

He'd completely forgotten what's-his-name was still talking. "Can I get you another drink? You look a bit peaky."

"Are you still here? No, I'll get it myself. Excuse me," Draco said, pushing past the Junior Auror towards the bar.

To Draco's frustration, Potter was accosted almost immediately. Draco didn’t even make it halfway across the room before Potter was roped into what was probably an excruciating conversation with a member of the Department of Mysteries, after which he was cornered by a gaggle of tittering interns. Draco could hardly suppress his snarl. He had absolutely no interest in sharing Potter's attention with some greying dullard or a bunch of insipid girls. So, he really had no choice but to torment Potter until he could get him alone.

Tormenting Potter was something with which Draco had plenty of practice, because it wasn't just that Potter was never alone at parties; Potter was never alone _ever._ It was maddening. He was constantly circled by friends and admirers, fans, politicians, celebrities — people who wanted his money, his attention, his endorsement, his cock. It forced Draco to get highly creative with his tactics. He rarely had to try so bloody hard. Normally a wink and a smirk were enough to get a bloke stalking across the room. But not Potter. Fortunately, Draco was nothing if not persistent.

The business of torturing Potter usually meant faffing about the Ministry in tight trousers, insulting Potter in front of important people, and bending over to tie his shoes in a very suggestive manner when Draco knew Potter was watching. There was even a clever bit of tongue work on an ice lolly last summer that had Potter tripping into one of the chairs in the canteen — because Potter _noticed_ , of course he did. And Potter would grin, or shake his head and chuckle, low and gruff. But he never seemed to want to _do_ anything about it. Probably because Potter was never alone. And never single.

So Draco delighted in tormenting him, and Potter put up a constant, if lacklustre resistance. Even though he’d been at it for months, Draco didn’t mind biding his time; he even enjoyed it a bit. Potter was such fun when he was flustered because the truth was, flustering Potter was _challenging_. Potter was normally scowling and austere, authoritative and threatening, so to see him flush pink or chuckle under his breath sent delight curling in Draco's chest. Everyone around Potter was always so serious. Even at a Christmas party, sycophants were hovering in his orbit, waiting their turn to say something clever, to compliment him, to beg things of him under the guise of charity. It was pitiful, and Potter looked bored out of his bloody mind.

Draco, on the other hand, was not afraid of Potter, and did his very best to distract him from the agony of such inane conversations. First, he positioned himself behind Potter and set about throwing bar nuts down his collar while Potter stood there enduring a list of grievances from the head of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Department. It was going rather well, and Draco had landed four out of five, until Potter waved a casual hand and erected a clever anti-bar nut shield that sent Draco's projectiles pinging off with alarming velocity. Draco dodged most of them, but a cashew landed in the white wine of the Minister's wife, which she didn't notice until she was already choking dramatically and Potter had to rescue her with the Heimlich Manoeuvre like the ridiculous half-Muggle he was. Draco wondered if he ought to start pretending to choke too; maybe then Potter would put his arms around _him_.

Next, he sent sneaky little tripping jinxes at anyone who approached Potter, which seemed to both amuse and annoy him. But in the end, it only managed to give Martin Goldfinch from Magical Games and Sports the opportunity to grope at Potter in order to keep his balance, which was absolutely not on. The only person allowed to manhandle Potter was Draco, and he scowled, which had Potter hiding his laugh with a cough into his fist.

Draco was pleased to see that Potter had finally made his way to the buffet table while Draco was off refilling his champagne flute. He was, regrettably, cornered by Basil Partridge, only the highest and drollest member of the Wizengamot, but Draco planned to take his opportunity while it was offered to him, stodgy old men be damned. Partridge probably wouldn't even notice, as he did tend to get into the scotch at these sorts of parties while his wife was otherwise occupied with St Nicholas.

When Draco approached, Partridge was prattling aimlessly about foreign budgets, Muggle relations, the price of a fine toupee — Draco really didn't know or fucking care because Potter was within six feet of him and looking very tall and ruggedly handsome while frowning down at a plate of Harry Potter-shaped biscuits.

"Alright there, Potter?" Draco said from the opposite side of the table. Potter glanced up and his frown cleared.

"Malfoy," he said, lips twitching into a smirk.

"I daresay it was hardly worth the trouble of a Portkey trip stateside,” Partridge carried on talking, completely oblivious. “But it wasn't as if we could host the American Minister _here_ , not after that nonsense with the Swedish council member." 

"Oh, would you look at these?" Draco said and plucked a biscuit from the platter. "Aren't they _darling_?"

"That's one word for them, I guess," Potter grumbled and piled a few sausage rolls and a generous slice of Christmas cake onto his plate.

"And would you believe, the American Minister told the French emissary that taxation on dragon's blood was just a simple matter of capitalism and — " Partridge continued, undeterred. 

Potter shot a glance to Partridge and smiled tightly, nodding.

"Gingerbread is my absolute favourite," Draco said.

He ran the pad of his thumb sensuously across the front of the biscuit, fingers flicking over the sugar buttons. Potter's eyes narrowed.

"But I told him, I said, 'my good man, that isn't how we do business in the Queen's Country,' and the _nerve_ of him, ruddy cowboys, the lot of them—"

Potter was watching him with a flinty-eyed stare when Draco raised the biscuit to his mouth. He bit his bottom lip between his teeth, plumping it, slicking it with spit, then dragged it up the gingerbread man's leg. Potter's jaw tightened.

"The French emissary did his best to keep his composure in the face of that sort of brashness, and I really must hand it to him. If we didn't need their cooperation in the trade agreements so bloody badly — "

Draco flicked out the wicked tip of his tongue and pointedly ran it between the gingerbread man's legs, keeping his eyes fixed on Potter.

Potter's face went storm-cloud dark and the entire contents of his plate, along with his fork, went sliding to the floor with a splat and clatter.

Partridge flinched, startled from his monologue. "I say!"

Draco clucked his tongue. "So clumsy, Potter. What's the matter with you?"

Potter growled, and Draco crowed in triumph.

He bit the head off of the biscuit and walked away, going to stand in front of Pansy who was watching the whole encounter from the bar with mild amusement.

"Nicely done, love," she said.

"Wasn't it just?" Draco said, standing in front of her. "Is he looking?"

Pansy peered around his shoulder.

"Stop that!" Draco snapped, swatting a hand at her. "Don't be obvious about it."

Pansy scoffed. "What do you want me to do, Draco? I can't see 'round your gigantic head unless I lean a bit."

"Okay, just be _casual,_ for fuck sake."

Pansy shot him a nasty look, but with a flip of her hair and a fake laugh, she managed to look over Draco's shoulder. "Mm, no. Wait. Yes? Hard to say."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Circe's tits, Pans. Just wear the fucking glasses."

"They don't go with my dress."

"Neither will the bruises you'll get from smacking into walls, you blind bint."

"He's definitely looking now."

Draco tucked his chin and peeked over his shoulder coyly, and _yes_. Potter was looking alright. Draco smirked and Potter's eyes went a little dark, his smile a touch wicked.

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Pansy huffed. "I'm going to get another drink."

Draco was so certain that Potter would finally come to him, but no such luck. It was becoming painfully clear that Draco was going to have to take desperate measures. The hour was growing late, St Nicholas had been snogged twice, Marcy was definitely gearing up for another round of "Baby It's Cold Outside," and to everyone's surprise, Elliot from Transportation had joined her in a duet.

It was the final straw when Genevieve Smithson from Draco's own office cornered Potter. She was twenty-four, pretty, clever, and the front of her dress was incredibly low. And Potter was _looking_.

Draco really wasn't thinking straight when he stalked up to Potter and the twit with the cleavage and rudely smacked into Potter's shoulder, causing him to lurch forward and spill his drink all over his lovely jumper. And okay, perhaps it wasn't Draco's most inspired move, but he was desperate. But then Cleavage began mopping at Potter's chest with her dithering little hands, and that hadn't gone at all as he'd planned.

"Oh _no,_ Potter, I'm desperately sorry," Draco said, batting her hands away, causing her to glower at him. "Is this cashmere? This will need to be cleaned specially. I know a spell; here, let me help."

Draco went for his wand, but Potter's face went instantly stony and his hand shot up, snagging Draco around the wrist.

"Point your wand at me and you'll regret it, Malfoy."

Draco licked his lips and thanked Merlin for the excellent tailoring of his trousers because otherwise, it would have been painfully obvious to everyone in the room that Draco was getting hard. Potter's grip around his wrist tightened and Draco suppressed a groan, eyelashes fluttering. It was just that it was terribly rare that Draco had a chance to get so close to Potter, and he smelled quite nice, woody and masculine, and his eyes really were very green, surrounded in dark lashes.

Draco bit his lip between his teeth and glanced down at the front of his trousers surreptitiously. "Bit late for that, Potter."

Potter's eyes went wide, and he released Draco's wrist abruptly. His lips twitched around a smile.

"Excuse me," Potter said, turning to Cleavage. "I need to clean up."

Draco watched him go with a little tilt of his head. Cleavage cleared her throat. He'd forgotten she was there, but she was glaring and twirling her wine glass between her fingers.

"Real subtle," she said.

"Oh, darling, I gave up on subtlety with that one ages ago. He's far too thick for that. Requires a firmer hand with a stronger grip," Draco said with a wink.

She looked somewhat affronted and Draco stifled a hysterical laugh. It really was quaint, the way everyone pussyfooted around Potter that way, like he was anything more than a man. A very fit, powerful and rather spectacular one, but a man all the same. 

"Run along now," Draco said with a wave of his hand and she turned on her heel.

Draco half-considered following Potter into the toilets, but he thought better of it as he had no desire to go banging on the door of every stall looking for Potter, only to walk in on Shacklebolt taking a shit. He didn't think he'd recover. So, instead, Draco went out to the balcony for some air and to wait for Potter to return so he could launch his next attack.

The balcony wasn't empty, as Draco had hoped. There was a small group of young men smoking fragrant cigars and drinking scotch so peaty Draco could smell it from the doorway. There was a cluster of young girls speaking in hushed tones in the opposite corner, and a stuffy old goblin and a paunchy wizard with a beard were in the midst of a heated argument at the far end.

It was far too cold to be outside without a jacket or a charm, and all the others were cocooned in warming charms or bundled in wool, fur, or fleece. But Draco didn't mind the chill; he was feeling sufficiently flushed as it was.

It was properly dark, but the balcony was lit with fairy lights and the domed glass of the Ministry of Magic glowed with life behind him. It was festive and sort of nice, if you were sappy enough to be a sucker for the holidays.

Draco sipped his champagne. He'd really had too much, but the bubbles had made their way to his head, effusing him with their fizzing warmth. There was a matching fluttering in Draco's gut as he plotted how next to torture Potter. He wondered how Potter would react if he touched him? If Draco's fingers skimmed his lower back while he endured another boring conversation with some dried-up old politician, would he jump? Would he growl and glare at Draco with glinting eyes? Would he melt into it? Would he ever allow Draco to do it without sneaking up on him?

Potter really ought to just invite Draco to be his date to these sorts of functions. Draco was adept at diverting conversation and would be sure to slip in properly hilarious remarks that would go right over everyone's heads except Potter's. Draco could make Potter laugh, he was sure of it. And Potter really ought to laugh more. It looked rather nice on him, and although the omnipresent scowl was quite sexy, Draco was concerned that the worry lines around Potter's eyes and mouth were looking a touch deep.

Draco continued to plot ways to better bully a smile out of Potter, but Potter beat him to the punch, appearing in the doorway to the balcony, jumper dry and expression drier. A few others filtered out behind him, and he nodded towards them. Draco feared they might attempt to pull him into another excruciating conversation, but instead, Potter beelined to stand next to Draco. He leaned one hip against the balustrade, putting them shoulder-to-shoulder.

Draco shivered because it really was quite cold.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" Potter said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Draco smirked and scooted a bit closer so as to leech some of Potter's warmth. "I think I'm bloody hilarious."

Potter snorted and shook his head. "You're like a child, you know."

"But a funny one."

Potter laughed and Draco added a mark to his make-Potter-smile tally, which was going rather well, he reckoned.

Draco noticed Potter was without a drink and held out his champagne. Potter raised a brow.

"I hear you've had a bit of a day," Draco said.

"Where did you hear that?"

"Splashed all over the papers, yet again. As if you didn't know."

Potter sighed and accepted the glass. Draco watched, enraptured, as he took a sip, seizing the opportunity to admire Potter's profile.

Potter swallowed the champagne and cast his eyes upward. "Still delighting in my misery, Malfoy?"

"Is that what you think I'm doing?"

Potter turned to him and studied his face for a moment. "Not rightly sure what I think."

Draco dipped his chin and smirked cheekily. "I'm sure even you could parcel it out, Potter. Think hard. Very _hard."_

Potter chuckled so low Draco felt his stomach flutter in response. He took another sip of Draco's champagne. "You're unbelievable."

Draco pulled the glass from Potter's hand, letting his fingers drag across Potter’s on the stem. "You have no idea."

Potter laughed outright and Draco couldn't help but grin in response.

"I hate this party," Potter said with a sigh, his smile faltering.

"Me too," Draco agreed and took a drink from the glass, purposely placing his mouth exactly where Potter's had been.

"I was planning on skiving off." 

"As was I."

"So why did you come?" Potter asked.

Draco almost said _you_ but managed to keep his admissions between his teeth. "I've got Galleons riding on Marcy singing and dancing on the tables to that horrid Muggle Mariah Carey song."

"Fuck, I put mine on Edith snogging the undersecretary of Games and Sports in the broom closet."

"Foolish, Potter. Everyone knows Edith fancies you. Better watch your back and avoid any mistletoe."

Potter paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping from Draco's feet to his face so slowly it felt like a caress. "I wonder if anyone has Galleons on us."

Draco's stomach jumped viciously and he quirked a brow. "Do you think?"

"After that stunt with the biscuit? They just might."

"I've got another one in my pocket if you'd like to watch me do it again."

Potter blinked, slow and weighted. "Tempting," he admitted. "Very tempting. But I'd rather not scandalise any more members of the Wizengamot tonight. Not if I'm expected to look them in the eyes in court on Monday." Potter shook his head, a small smile flickering around his lips. "Do you always keep biscuits in your pockets?"

"Only when they're shaped like you."

"Seen many of those?"

"No, but I think I'd like to. They're delicious." Draco looked at Potter out of the corner of his eye and let the champagne bolster his courage. "I'm afraid it's the closest I'm going to get to the real thing."

The corners of Potter's plush mouth turned down, but he said nothing. So Draco blundered ahead without him.

"You've managed to show up with a Quidditch player on either arm, a popstar or two, even a few totally unknown lumps completely below your station and with absolutely nothing interesting to contribute. So, why not me? I'm a far better prospect, if I do say so myself."

A crease formed between Potter's dark brows. "Is that what you wanted? A date to a party?"

"I'd settle for a party date. These things are hell alone, not that you'd know."

Potter just carried on frowning and not saying anything, and Draco's heart sunk a little. He shouldn't have said a word, he should have just carried on flirting with Potter and tugging at his shirtsleeves, savouring the little dribbles of attention he was offered. But now he'd gone and made Potter uncomfortable in the not-fun way, in the not laughing or even bloody smiling in an exasperated but fond way, and that was very not good.

Draco pushed the glass of champagne back into Potter's hand. There were only a couple sips left and Draco decided he'd drank enough. There were no less than three Wizengamot members hovering a few feet away, eyeing Potter, clearly gearing up to accost him, and Draco wasn't interested in standing there like a numpty while they nattered on.

"I can hear shrill shrieking. That'll be Marcy, which means I just won the pool," Draco lied. "I think I'll collect my winnings and be on my way. Enjoy your evening, Potter."

Potter accepted the glass hesitantly, and sure enough, the hovering politicians began walking straight toward them as soon as Draco began his exit.

Potter looked as though he might reach out, but Draco was too many steps away and had too much pride to turn back, so he shot his best smirk over his shoulder and took his leave, stepping through the door and melting back into the festive and intoxicated crowd.

Draco found Pansy at the bar with two fingers hooked between the shiny black buttons of St Nicholas' red suit.

"I give up, Pans," Draco announced.

"No luck?" Pansy said, slanting her eyes toward Draco, her painted lips thinning in sympathy at the look on Draco's face. "Sorry, pet."

"Are you ready to go?" Draco asked.

She glanced at the fit Santa. "Nicholas here doesn't get off until ten o'clock."

"Which means you're getting off at, what… ten-fifteen? Seriously, Pans?"

Pansy clucked her tongue. "Don't be so sour. Maybe you ought to set your sights a touch lower."

St Nicholas frowned, but Pansy patted his chest with one hand.

"Oh, don't take it personally," she said to the pouting St Nick. "He's chasing after Harry Potter."

St Nick inclined his head and shot Draco a sympathetic look. "She's got a point, mate."

"Oh shut up," Draco snapped, then heaved a noisy sigh. "Fine. I'm getting my coat. I have a long evening of disappointing wanking ahead of me."

Pansy's attention was already back on Nicholas; she was twisting fingers around his neck, scratching nails across his skin, and Nick had a hand on her arse. "Good for you, darling. Have fun."

Draco rolled his eyes and stalked off toward the coatroom. The party was still in full swing and likely would be for at least another hour — and that was saying nothing of the afterparty, which usually consisted of just the severely drunk and those not-yet paired off stumbling to the Leaky and drinking until either their babysitters started sending Howlers or the bartender cut them off. Draco never managed to stay that long. He preferred to while away the rest of his evening in private. Well, he would have preferred to spend it with Potter, even if it were nothing more than a bit of flirting and gentle antagonism.

He was kicking himself for getting melancholy. It wasn't like him. He was normally able to keep it under control, to be happy with the quips, banter, and heated looks. Perhaps it was because Potter was always out of his reach, otherwise attached, comfortably seated on the pedestal where Draco placed him. But it still stung.

Potter probably didn't even want him — which was ridiculous, because despite his checkered past, Draco never had any trouble pulling. He was starting to believe Potter had no taste at all. Perhaps Potter preferred his silly twenty-somethings with cleavage, or his tanned and toned Quidditch players who could barely manage three words in English. Potter didn't know class when it stared him straight in the face in a red velvet Valentino suit. It was his loss, really.

The coat check boy was snoozing in his chair and Draco huffed in exasperation. He cast an _Accio_ at the closet, sending his black wool Belstaff coat and scarf fluttering off their hangers and into Draco's outstretched hand.

He was slipping his arms into the sleeves and wrapping his scarf artfully around his neck when the ballroom doors flew open, crashing against the walls with a loud bang. And Harry Potter stormed through them, looking incensed and determined. Draco paused, summoning an insult to the tip of his tongue, but before it could tumble cleverly from his lips, Potter had him by the collar of his coat and was tugging him, nay, _dragging_ him away from the exit and down the hallway.

Draco barely managed an indignant squawk before Potter was slashing his wand at the entrance to the DMLE and bloody _kicking_ open the door to his office. With another sharp yank at his collar, Draco reeled, stumbling backwards and landing in Potter's massive leather office chair. Draco had half a mind to ask Potter what the buggering fuck he thought he was doing, and did he know this jacket was vintage, tailored specifically to him, and rather fucking expensive? But then Potter was crawling into his lap, knees tucked on either side of Draco's hips, and Draco forgot what the hell he was meant to be complaining about because _oh yes._

"Fucking _finally_ ," Draco groaned.

Potter was a warm and solid weight on Draco's thighs. He buried his fingers in Draco's hair and Draco couldn't even find it in himself to care that Potter was probably ruffling it beyond repair, because suddenly Potter was kissing him.

Draco had spent far too many hours thinking about kissing Harry Potter. He thought about it while he was at home buttering toast. He thought about it at the Muggle coffee shop he liked while trying to count out the correct number of pounds for a latte. He thought about it while filing papers in his office and when his boss shouted at him over nothing, red-faced and spewing spittle. He thought about it in the shower, at the pub, and alone in his bed at night. He thought about it when he was pressed up against another man, someone with messy dark hair and bright eyes who thought Draco was worth taking to bed but never laughed at his jokes.

All those hours spent thinking about it filtered away like smoke in the wind because _actually kissing Harry Potter_ was one million times better than he'd imagined. Potter tasted like champagne, sweet and a touch tart, and Draco wanted to chase it with his tongue. And when Potter opened beneath his lips, Draco felt it like a punch to the gut. Draco plunged his hands underneath Potter's soft jumper, his palms pressed flat against the warm cotton of his vest. Potter shifted on top of him, pressing in closer and sucking a noisy breath through his nose as his fingers tightened in Draco's hair.

Potter kissed like he fought, like he duelled, like he wielded magic. It was rough and domineering, a little messy, but holy hell, Draco could kiss him forever. Potter was so alive in Draco's arms, and when he widened his thighs and tilted his hips just so, Draco could feel the firm line of his cock through their trousers. Potter was hard and hot and even bigger than in Draco's frequent and lurid daydreams. Draco tightened the circle of his arms around Potter's waist, groping his arse and locking him against Draco's body — which felt bloody _fantastic._ Fucking hell, did Potter just spend all day jogging up and down stairs? Jazzercising? Because it was firm and flexing, perfectly sized for Draco's palms. It only furthered Draco's assumptions that Potter was bloody built for him because honestly, he was superbly tailored, practically bespoke. He was just the right height for kissing without causing a crick in Draco's neck. He was strong enough, stronger than Draco, which was ideal because Draco fancied a bit of rough handling.

But it was more than just that Potter was fit—probably the fittest Draco had ever coaxed beneath his hands — but he smelled like fucking heaven, woodsy and fresh and just a touch sweet. And he was making these _sounds_ , little huffs of breath punctuated with a growl or a purr, something from deep in his chest. His hands were heavy, indelicate but sure, as he tossed Draco's scarf to the ground, clawed at the buttons of his shirt and tugged at the knot in his tie.

Draco cursed the rigid arms of the chair which were preventing him from wriggling free of his coat and getting one less layer of fabric between his skin and Potter's. But Potter managed to tear open the front of Draco's shirt. He ran the flats of his hands across Draco's chest and over his stomach, and Draco positively keened, arching into his touch. Draco raked fingers up Potter's back, gripping handfuls of his vest and tugging it from his jeans to push his hands beneath and finally grasp flesh. Potter just kissed him harder.

The muscles of Potter's back flexed beneath Draco's searching hands and his hips were moving slightly, a gentle rocking motion that made Draco's head spin. Potter's skin was so bloody hot, but it wasn't smooth, not the way Draco was used to. It was peppered with raised scars, valleys torn into vulnerable flesh by dark magic. On anyone else it would have been appalling, frightening, a red fucking flag, but not on Potter. On Potter it was glorious, it was dangerous and sexy and just one more reminder that it was no ordinary wizard sprawled across Draco's lap. Because Draco _knew_ what Potter was like. He knew it better than Busty and Twenty-Four, he knew it better than some suave Quidditch player or leather-trouser-clad rockstar, or whoever else managed to con their way to Potter's side. Draco knew him, knew what he was capable of. And if Potter would let him, Draco would kiss and lick and drag his cock across every scar until he'd mapped them permanently in his mind, because they deserved no less than worship.

"Oh Jesus, fuck," Potter cursed against Draco's mouth as Draco ran a hand over the bulge in Potter's jeans, squeezing lightly and feeling it twitch beneath his fingers.

Heat roared in Draco's gut. Draco wanted to touch him, _needed_ to touch him. He fumbled with the buckle of Potter's belt and popped the button on his jeans. He tried desperately to get a hand past Potter's fly, but the weight of Potter's body in his lap, the arms of the chair, and the tightness of that perfectly tailored coat conspired to restrict his movements.

Potter growled a deep throaty sound and pulled himself from Draco's embrace. He slid from Draco's lap, taking with him his mouth and tongue and incredibly warm skin, and Draco found himself clawing after him, fingers curling into the front of his jumper. Potter wrapped a hand around Draco's wrist and pulled.

"Stand up," he demanded, and Draco followed.

Draco shucked the coat, tossing it to the chair behind him, and crowded Potter against his desk. He pressed the full lengths of their bodies together as Draco chased to reclaim his mouth, kissing him hard and hungry. Potter had his hands clasped behind Draco's neck to keep from sprawling backwards against the desk. Draco tore at Potter's jumper, attempting to pull it over his head, but Potter pulled back, hair ruffled and glasses askew. He was flushed pink, his mouth swollen and spit-slick and Draco wanted him, wanted him, _wanted him_.

But Potter was looking at him with fevered eyes and Draco feared Potter was about to push him away.

"What? What's wrong?" Draco asked, his voice too low, too hoarse. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind already? I swear to god, Potter, if you're just torturing me for fun I have it in my mind to hex your bloody bollocks off because I have been an _angel._ The restraint I've shown is honestly praiseworthy, so either you're going to let me put my hand in your trousers and make you come all over this ridiculous desk, or you’d best get used to life with only one of your balls."

Potter's eyes went wide and he huffed out a surprised laugh. He blinked once and the door to his office shut with a noisy bang. Hell, Draco hadn't even realised it was still open. More importantly, Potter had just done wandless magic, somewhat overzealous wandless magic he reckoned, because the door definitely wasn't hanging right and one of the hinges looked as if it were clinging by a thread.

"Nope, I'm good," he said and snagged Draco around the back of his neck and pulled him close.

Draco went willingly, but stopped tugging at Potter's jumper, because he decided it was rather dashing, seeing him with his shirt rucked up and his trousers undone, perched on the corner of his big desk, still covered with important papers and Potter's shiny gold badge.

Draco ran one hand down the firm planes of Potter's stomach, his fingers skating across his abdominal muscles to curl around the waistband of his jeans. He tucked the tips of his fingers beneath the fabric only to find more warm skin. Draco tore his eyes away from the open button and zip at Potter's waist to look him in the eyes.

"My gods, Potter, are you one of those pantsless types?" he teased. "You little tart!"

Potter chuckled, a breathless puff of air. "The bossy stylist who dresses me for events said it ruined the lines of the trousers she has tailored for me. It became a habit."

Draco groaned. "Harry Potter just said the words _stylist_ , _tailored_ , and _ruins the lines of the trousers_ in a sentence unironically? Bloody hell, I think I just came."

Potter's chuckle went a little high-pitched and giggling, and _goodness_ that was a delightful sound.

"Is that all it takes with you posh types?" Potter asked, his last words lost to a gasp because Draco finally managed to get his hand around Potter's cock, pulling it free from where it was trapped behind soft denim.

"Oh Merlin, no," Draco purred. "We also require very fancy dinners, expensive gifts, effusive and regular compliments, of which I have received none. But I'll give you a pass this time, Potter. It is Christmas after all, and it's a bit late for dinner now," Draco gave him a long slow stroke, twisting his wrist as the circle of his fist curled around the tip of Potter's cock. "Not now that I've filled up on biscuits."

If Draco thought he'd enjoyed the little giggle, it was only because he hadn't yet heard Potter laugh and moan at the same time. Now _that_ was bliss. It rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest and rolled out his mouth, ragged and warm. Draco felt that laugh in his gut. He felt it in his cock. He felt it curl inside him and settle like a house cat in a patch of sunlight.

Draco dropped to his knees, because if Potter was going to go around making sounds like that and looking lovely and dishevelled, half splayed across his big fancy desk, well then, he was going to get his cock bloody sucked and there was nothing to be had for it.

Draco fastened his hands on either side of Potter's hips and with a little tug got his jeans past his arse and down his thighs. Potter leaned heavily against the desk behind him, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, which was gorgeous. Everything about him was gorgeous. It was no wonder Potter had men and women breaking down his door — but that was of no consequence now as Draco had no intention of letting him out of his sight. With a final smirk that sent Potter's eyes fluttering shut, Draco curled the tip of his tongue around the head of his cock.

Draco was good at this. He loved it. He loved the taste of it, the heady masculine scent of it, the feel of throbbing pressure at the back of his throat. And Potter, the lucky bastard, was going to get Draco's very best, because Potter wore jeans without pants, and laughed when Draco was being properly clever, and because Draco wanted him so badly he could hardly think. Draco had every intention of keeping his ministrations light and fleeting, of pushing Potter to the precipice, only to hold him there ruthlessly. But as soon as he felt Potter thread his fingers through the hair at Draco's forehead, combing back to settle behind his ear, Draco was lost. He swallowed Potter down in one movement, a moan pulled from his throat.

Potter hissed, his hips twitching forward. But Draco didn't choke, he just relaxed the back of his throat and took it.

"Oh fuck, that's good," Potter groaned as Draco pulled off only to take him all the way back down.

It was all too easy to lose himself in the rhythmic push and pull, the gentle suction, the repetitive swirl of his tongue around the crown of Potter's cock. Draco allowed his hands the freedom to explore the strength of Potter's thighs, the curve of his arse, the jut of his hip bones. And all the while Potter continued to make those soft sounds, the gentle curses and praises that were so dirty sweet that Draco felt a fool for never, in all of his many fantasies, imagining that Potter would be so vocal in his pleasure.

Potter's finger's in Draco's hair were beginning to tighten, fingernails scratching deliciously against his scalp, and he knew if he kept it up just a little longer Potter would come down his throat, and Draco would welcome it.

Then came a scuffle just outside the room, muffled voices followed by the crash of two bodies hitting the door to Potter's office.

Draco was on his feet immediately, wiping his mouth with the back of his fist. Potter gripped Draco's arm tightly with one hand, his body twisted to watch the silhouettes of what appeared to be a woman and a man snogging against the door. Potter spun back around to look at Draco, his eyes twinkling and a cheeky grin on his face.

"Do you know who that is?" he whispered.

Draco frowned and listened more closely, though he didn't really want to. And then he _really_ didn't want to, because that was definitely Edith and the undersecretary of Games and Sports. Draco grimaced.

"I do believe I'm owed some money," Potter said, biting his lip against his growing smile. And then he wrapped one hand around Draco's neck and proceeded to lick the spot just below his ear that absolutely made him weak.

Draco groaned and Potter pulled back abruptly. "Shh!" he hissed.

The couple pressed against the door stilled.

"Did you hear that?" Edith said.

"Didn't hear a thing," the undersecretary replied, his voice muffled by skin or fabric, and Draco did _not_ want to picture that, especially not when he was standing in the vee of Harry Potter's thighs with his very hard cock, still wet with spit, pressed against Draco's hip.

Draco glared at Potter, because they were bloody wizards. And Potter was one of the most powerful of them all. Why he didn't already have sound-proofing charms on his office, Draco had no idea, beyond that Potter was probably an idiot. Draco had every intention of retrieving his wand from his discarded coat pocket, but before he could make a move, Potter's hands were on Draco’s fly, opening his trousers and pushing the cotton of his pants aside to grip his cock.

Draco's mouth fell open with a gasp and Potter clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his moans. Draco forgot about his wand, forgot about Edith and the undersecretary, forgot about air, and fucking _gravity,_ because Potter was touching him and he was absolutely _aching_ for it. He sank against Potter's body, melting into him. He could hear Potter's warm chuckle and feel him widen his stance to bear Draco's weight. He released the palm over Draco's mouth and Draco let his forehead fall to Potter's shoulder. His hands were bunched in Potter's jumper as he fucked into the circle of Potter's fist.

And when Potter released him, and Draco felt Potter's cock against his own, hot and achingly hard, followed by the warm pressure of Potter's broad palm wrapped around them both, Draco let out a shuddering groan, not caring a lick who heard.

It was a bit clumsy and completely embarrassing to be rutting against each other on top of a piece of furniture like bloody teenagers. It shouldn't have been so ridiculously hot, and he shouldn't have been so close to the edge. But he was. He _really was._ It was quite a sight, after all, both of them still half-dressed, trousers around their thighs, Draco with his shirt open and tie loose, Potter with his jumper pushed up to his sternum by Draco's questing hands. Potter was letting out gasping little moans, and his face was so flushed, and his hair absolutely wild, his eyes squeezed shut and his lip clamped between his teeth as Draco bit kisses up his neck. 

The desk was creaking, and Draco was clutching at Potter's hair, scraping blunt fingernails across the back of his neck as he pulled Potter's mouth against his own. They kissed messily, all teeth and tongues, and it was perfect, it was bloody brilliant and Draco was going to come. He was going to come in Harry Potter's hand, pinning him against his big important desk in his big fancy office and just the _thought_ of it wrenched another groan from somewhere deep in Draco's chest.

"I ought to bend you right over this ridiculous desk for making me wait so long," Draco whispered against Potter's ear. "Would you like that? Do you want me to finger you open? Fuck you with my tongue until you're loose and aching and everyone at the bloody Christmas party can hear you begging for it?"

“Jesus Christ,” Potter gasped and the hand around their cocks went a bit too tight.

"Do you want me to fuck you on top of all your papers? Fill you up and leave you dripping? Send you right back to that stupid party with my come dripping down your thighs? Think you could talk budgets with the Wizengamot then? I'd like to watch you try."

"Fuck, Draco," Potter groaned.

The sound of his given name falling from Potter's mouth lit a fire in Draco's veins, causing the ache in his gut to pull so tight it was nearly painful. As quickly as he could, he ran the flat of his tongue across his palm and added his fist alongside Potter's. The wetness of his hand was deliciously slick and the additional pressure was just what he needed. Draco felt himself barrelling quickly toward the edge, and Potter was right there with him.

The sound Potter made just before he came was something Draco hoped he'd never forget because _bloody hell_. Draco knew what was about to happen because Potter's hand went a bit tight and his whole body tensed. He gasped, then groaned, long and low, and Draco felt the twitch and languid pulsing of his cock against his own. It was enough to send Draco hurtling after him, the ache that burned low at the base of his spine erupting and spanning out from his centre to the very tips of his fingers and toes.

Potter's hand fell away and Draco relaxed his grip, easing them through the aftershocks with the gently, slippery slide of his palm. Eventually, it became too much and he let go, the room suddenly startlingly real around them.

Draco stumbled back a couple steps and collapsed into Potter's gigantic chair. He ran his clean hand through his dishevelled hair and blew out a noisy exhale.

Potter was still half-splayed across the desk, his trousers bunched at his knees. His head was thrown back, exposing the column of his throat.

"I don't think I've come like that since I was twenty," Potter said to the ceiling.

"What, on your desk? Knew you were a slag, Potter."

Potter chuckled and he tipped his chin to his chest to look at Draco. "No, from a bit of wanking."

"If you call that a bit of wanking I'd very much like to see what you consider a bit of fucking," Draco quipped, as he fumbled for his wand and spelled away the mess. He examined his trousers surreptitiously, though he wasn't sure he'd really care if Potter had managed to ruin them. He would have considered it a worthy sacrifice.

"Would you?" Potter asked.

Draco gave him a sharp look. He wasn't sure if Potter was taking the piss and Draco feared appearing too eager, but it wasn’t as if Draco would deny him. It was probably best that Potter didn’t know Draco would spend the next week on his bloody knees if asked.

But Potter just grinned, warm and genuine as he sorted the tangled mess of his clothes. "Fancy a real bed next time? My back isn't what it used to be."

"Not even going to ask me to dinner first?" Draco asked.

"You already said it was too late for dinner."

"You mean you want to go now?" Draco boggled.

Potter shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

Draco tried to tamp down on his smile as the fizzing joy that bubbled in his chest overflowed like a freshly opened bottle of champagne. "Alright then. My flat is just around the corner."

Potter waggled his brows and went to the door, leaning against it with one hand on the knob. "I think they've gone," he said.

"Who?" Draco said dumbly as he got to his feet, his knees still a bit wobbly.

"Edith and that bloke from Games and Sports."

"God, I'd completely forgotten about them."

Potter chuckled. "I noticed."

Draco frowned as he pulled on his coat. "For fuck’s sake, Potter, you _are_ a wizard, aren't you? And the head of the DMLE at that. Do I even want to know why you don't have any soundproofing charms on your office? That's just negligent."

"Oh, I do. Loads of them," Potter said with a grin.

"So what is this business shushing me and clapping hands over my mouth?"

Potter shrugged. "Just kind of always wanted to do that."

"Your fantasy is shutting me up?" Draco drawled, unamused. 

"It was."

Draco stepped up to Potter where he leaned against the door, close enough to smell his cologne, but not touching him. "And now?"

Potter's eyes dropped from Draco's eyes to his mouth. "I've reconsidered. Within reason of course."

"Very good, Potter."

"Should probably start calling me Harry."

"I'll call you whatever the hell you want. I'll call you Auror Potter Sir, Saviour of the bloody world," Draco said, dipping his chin to nip at Potter's jaw.

"That works too," Harry said with a sigh as he sank against the door. He tucked his forefingers into the pockets of Draco's trousers, drawing him closer.

Then Harry pulled back, his face a grimace. He dipped his fingers deeper into Draco's trouser pocket, which would have been quite sexy if he hadn't returned with a handful of biscuit crumbs stuck together with blobs of sticky icing. The only bit left intact was the better part of Harry’s head, lightning scar and messy hair.

"Blimey, I thought you were joking about the biscuit in your pocket."

Draco pouted. "Now what am I going to put in Father's Christmas stocking?"

Harry laughed and brushed his hands together, the crumbs falling to the floor.

"You ought to consider laughing more, _Harry_. It looks rather nice on you."

And Harry Potter bloody blushed and Draco did the only thing he could think of — he kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr!](https://the-sinking-ship.tumblr.com/)


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